When you make his sandwiches, put a sexy or loving note in his lunch box.
Some suggestions for you :
I'd known for a long time why I loved history. It was because the historians made it sound so coherent, so purposeful, so complete. They'd take an entire century and impose a meaning on it, a personality, a destiny—and this was, of course, a lie.
What lurked beneath my fancy frills, behind my quiet unquestioning eyes? Who was I? Had I no remembrance of a warmer flame than that which gave its wintry glow to my faint smile at those who asked it of me? I remembered no one who had ever lived and breathed within my quietly moving form.
He was tired and full of shame, and if Ernestino and the others wouldn't brave this rain, he would go it alone, he would find some place to sing, some place where, anonymous and numbed by drink, he could sing until he had forgotten everything.
My own funeral, I'd like to be laid out in a coffin in my own house. I would like my coffin to be put in the double parlor, and I would like all the flowers to be white.
Spiderwebs broken and torn in a wind that is indifferent to their beauty.
We have the future now, she whispered. Does it matter that we've wasted so many opportunities to meet in the past?
We seek to perfect what we are, not to constantly alter it. We seek to find something that is a true expression of our soul with which to shape what makes up our form. But there's no need for you to trouble yourself over these things.
I am the Vampire Lestat, and nothing … not even this mortal body … is going to defeat me.
Of course the moment I saw the books, I was overcome with pleasure. This always happens with me. I feel foolishly safe with books which can be a mistake.
And through the gloom I saw that mortal boy watching me, and I smelled the hot aroma of his flesh.